Getting To Idaho Was Less Than Half The Fun For Couple

The cashier stared first at me, then the $20 bill in my outstretched hand, then my truck next to the gas pumps. She squinted slightly at the truck, and my heart sped up slightly as I wondered what she was looking for. I had heeded the warnings of my friends when we’d moved into town a few weeks ago, hadn’t I? The California plates were in a box, and the truck already carried Idaho plates.

“Sir, you don’t need to pay until you’ve pumped the gas,” she explained in the tone of voice one uses to state the obvious. Sheepishly, I pocketed the bill and angled back out to the truck.

As the gas pump hummed, I looked out over the prairie and thought about all it had taken to get here. Moving to North Idaho had been a goal for nearly a year, and we planned every detail. Having a trailer built turned out to be cheaper than renting, so we ordered one big enough to carry everything and started packing.

Between the piano and the collection of sporting goods from my bachelor days, the formerly huge trailer had disappeared under an immense pile of, well, things. When it exceeded the height of our garage, friends began to hum the theme song from The Beverly Hillbillies, and my neighbor wandered over to inquire about the rated capacity of the axles. Twice.

Finally the big day arrived. We bid farewell to our friends and headed out of L.A. with our big four-wheel drive pulling the trailer. My wife led the way in the car and we had a new pair of CBs with a range the salesman had estimated at “between one and five miles, no problem.”

Out on the freeway, we became separated by about 500 feet, and I picked up the CB to say something endearing. Getting no response, I went to the old fashioned method, blinking my lights. She braked until no more than a car length separated us, and I could barely make out her voice through heavy static. I made a mental note to listen more closely when someone says “no problem.”

I think it was about 60 seconds later that the trailer began to sway back and forth. Gently at first, then more insistently. The trailer tires began howling, and a glance in the side mirror rewarded me with an explosion of stars as a lurch bounced my head off the glass.

I resisted the urge to oversteer, and it was over as quickly as it started, sparing me from becoming a “sigalert” - the term L.A.’s traffic reporters use to describe a particularly spectacular traffic delay. A few tentative trips to 50 mph confirmed that 45 mph was my limit before poor aerodynamics took over and started the wagging.

OK, so we have 1,200 miles to cover, the CB’s don’t work, and 15 minutes after leaving the driveway our top speed appears limited to 45 mph. Foolishly, I tell my wife through the static that it can’t get any worse. The reply was strangely garbled.

A short time later, one of the five huge tarps I had lovingly duct-taped over the trailer had come loose and was billowing into an enormous hood scoop. While taping them in place last night (OK, it was 3 a.m.), I had somehow missed the fine print about direct sunlight and shrinkage. We elected to press on and stop at the next truck stop for backup tarps.

Ninety-six dollars later, we hit the road again with a huge supply of rope, bungee cords, and duct tape that would prove totally inadequate by noon the next day.

Entering Oregon, the trailer brakes showed the strain and quit working. I ate lunch under the trailer with the cellular phone, while my father instructed me in the finer points of manual brake adjustment from his porch in Michigan.

We finally arrived in our new hometown with the satisfaction only a truly epic journey can create. It has not been easy to leave friends and great jobs to move here, but we felt it was worth the risk in order to be near the woods we love, have the great outdoors in our backyard and live on our own terms. In a way, that is what has drawn people to North Idaho for decades, and we are proud to contribute our spirit to this great state.

MEMO: Miller(dmiller@iea.com) lives in Coeur d’Alene with his wife, two cats and a partially written novel. The Millers moved to Idaho last July. Panhandle Pieces appears every Saturday. The column will be shared among four North Idaho writers.